collective grief

Embracing our Inner Winter

Women are cyclical beings living in a world that does not energetically respect our natural rhythms. We live in a culture that is obsessed with a perpetual ‘Summer’; demanding constant high energy, visibility, achievement and output.  Nature does not bloom year-round and neither do we.

We have seasons of life, seasons in our menstrual cycles, seasons in our energy cycles, seasons in our sexuality, seasons in our orgasm.  Our bodies and our sexuality are just like nature.  We are cycles within cycles within cycles.  When we view ourselves through this lens, from our monthly menstrual cycles, sexual responses to our grand seasons of life, everything shifts.

Inner Winter is not about a pause in life; it is life.  Is the essential deep-yin state where recalibration, healing and soul-level integration occur.  Winter energy is all about rest, slowing down, going inward and integrating. Giving yourself time to just be. Rest is an important part of our erotic practice and important for our health. It gives us time to rejuvenate and heal. Our body needs good rest to renew.

To the untrained eye a winter field looks dead, bare and unproductive.  However beneath the frost there is an intense biochemical recalibration that takes place.  There is a void in a fallow field and a fertile seed sits in the dark of the soil in absolute darkness, not because it is buried and has been forgotten but because it is being gestated.  Whilst spring follows the darkness of winter when we think of it sequentially, what is actually happening is spring is being cooked inside the dark heat of winter.  That recalibration is brewing the energy the seed needs to become a young seedling and burst through the soil.

In our winter season there is always a void, a liminal stage where we feel a little discombobulated, without our compass.  The void is not the absence of something, it is a weight.  It is the moment that gravity actually takes over and asks the body to lie down.  It is the moment we might notice the bracing in our shoulders, belly and jaw finally relax.  It is the moment we stop trying to hold it all together and allow ourselves to ‘be held’.

Digital Art - Kellie Stirling

What are the landscapes of our Inner Winter?

In our menstrual cycle it is our bleeding week where we have a physical pull inward, dropping into quiet, solitude and deep listening. In our erotic life, winter is the slow meditative integration after a peak release or, the seasons when sexual energy cools so the body can rejuvenate.  Rest is an active part of our erotic practice.

The Post-Partum time is a major winter inner season that requires rest and support so that a new mother can rejuvenate her body and cope with the complexity of the initiation into creating her inner mother. The only requirement of the post-partum experience is to BE. Be still, rest, be with the new baby. This can be challenging for many women who have been in a cycle of constant doing. It requires surrender.  In countries where there is no parental leave for new mothers they often go back to work weeks after having a baby before their body has healed.  There is a lot of pressure on new mothers now to get their body ‘back in shape’ quickly and this is often done without fully embracing the winter season of post-partum and allowing the body to heal from the birth.

In life stages this winter season equates with the archetypal Crone.  As Crones we have gone through the journey of menopause where we have been through a process of paring down; letting go of parts of ourselves we don't need and birthed new parts of ourselves. We acknowledge what we can no longer DO all the time and take the time to focus on what is meaningful for us. The Crone embodies wisdom, she IS the wisdom. Many women in the menopause transition  (Autumn seasons) claim their voice as part of their maturing into their wisdom, feeling like they have nothing left to lose. They speak their truth, to open up the world as they birth their work which is their soul's journey. Their work focused on supporting society and community.  When this doesn’t happen, what has been left unattended comes up in our transition to Crone.

Emotionally there are certain emotions that force us into a winter.  Grief and deep sadness require us to slow down and rest.  Grief, especially the profound loss of a loved one, is perhaps our most physical inner winter that we can experience as humans.  It drops us directly into the void of quiet.  It strips away our capacity for linear productivity demanding total stillness, deep listening and quiet surrendering to the waves of missing them.  I have been riding this season myself as I lost my father two months ago and the physicality of the fatigue has been rather profound.  I have found myself having to rest and really slow down to allow my body to process my grief.  Somatically these emotions are able to move through the body when we lie down.

However modern culture treats grief like an inconvenience that is temporary.  Something that we should wrap up in a few days of bereavement leave so we can get right back to Summer output and performance.

The Developmental task of any winter season is to Let go, Rest, Receive and Trust.  Just as Autumn asks us to harvest and prune, Winter asks us to let go of outdated roles, expectations and the need to control.

This looks like:

Letting go - Surrendering the urge to force momentum.

Resting - Treating rest as deep medicine rather than something that has to be earned.

Receiving - Allowing support, stillness and quiet insight to flow in.

Trusting - Believing in the intelligence of the void, the inbetween space we often feel in a winter season.  We know that in nature under the cold soil there is a lot happening, seeds are quietly gathering some energy to emerge in spring.


What are the hidden costs of resisting winter?

When we stay in summer we cause damage to ourselves.  Pushing through fatigue, ignoring physical signals and clinging to high output demands leads directly to nervous system fatigue, depletion, burnout and physical illness.

I want to add that grief in particular is a non linear winter.  Unlike the predictable week of the menstrual cycle, a grief winter doesn’t run on a neat timetable.  It can take months, sometimes years for the nervous system to feel safe enough to move onto spring.  When society pressures us to put on a brave face and bounce back we are forced to bypass the necessary somatic work of mourning; whatever the nature of our loss.  Resisting that winter doesn’t make the pain go away, it simply buries the unexpressed grief in the body where eventually it manifests as exhaustion, numbness or physical illness.

What are some practical ways you can reclaim your winter?

We start by honouring our body’s cues.  When we hear those subtle signals to slow down, we can hear our body before she starts to ‘scream’ at us.

You can lower your expectations of productivity during your bleeding week in your menstrual cycle or in the depths of perimenopause.

Practice radical boundary setting against the GO, GO, GO demands of modern life.

Engage in quiet restorative and integrative practices.  I am thinking of activities like Yoga Nidra and Qi Gong, moments of rest and maybe reflective practice like journaling.  For me there is nothing like sitting in the garden quietly reading a book.

Think of the rest stage of winter as rebirth.  When you grant yourself permission to enter your winter season whether it be for a week, a season or a year, you honour your true cyclical nature.  The promise of our inner seasons is that winter is never the end of the story; it is the foundation.  When you create space for deep rest today you ensure in your next spring season you will rise with clarity, power and a sense of deep knowing.

I think of winter as a radical act of self-stewardship.  When you reclaim your inner winter during a loss, whatever it may be, you are demonstrating a quiet act of defiance over a culture that values doing over being.  It is giving yourself permission to lie down ‘in fallow dirt’ to let your tears recalibrate your body and to trust that the quiet, unhurried rest is the only path toward true integration.

Where in your life right now is your body calling for an inner winter?  What would it like to trust that pull today?

If you would like to know more about your Inner Seasons head over to my website to read about all of the them and down a free copy of the content for yourself.




Some reflections on Nostalgia and Collective Grief

There’s a trend circulating at the moment on social media. “Mum and Dad… what were you like in the 90s?” People are posting old photos, grainy images, oversized denim, sun-faded afternoons. There’s something almost tender about it. A collective wistfulness and I’ve noticed it in myself too.

Recently, I’ve been watching Ryan Murphy’s series on John F. Kennedy Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. There’s something about it, the aesthetic, the pace, the feeling that evokes a different era. A quieter one. It stirs something. Not just memory but something deeper. The visuals evoke memories of my twenties living in London in the UK and times I visited New York in that time period.

Nostalgia is a slow form of grief where time shifts without our awareness. Chapters of our life end really quietly without much self awareness whilst we are living them. There are people, places and versions of ourselves that we never really got to say goodbye to, because we didn’t realise that we were at the end of something, until it was over.

We don’t really think of nostalgia as grief. Many of us learned that nostalgia was fondness or sentimentality. The yearning for the good old days. It is a felt sense, it’s very somatic; our senses are the gateway to our memories. A song comes on and reminds you of a time and place. You smell something and a whole era of your life comes flooding back. You might come across an old photo and as you look at it you remember the version of yourself that you see in your hand. How it felt to be that version of you. Sometimes you miss that version of yourself and sometimes you smile and think I am glad I am past all of that.

A few mornings ago, I was walking with my 17-year-old son. He’s been feeling the weight of the world lately like many young people are. The complexity of it. The uncertainty. The constant stream of information that never really lets the nervous system settle.

And he asked me: “What was life like when you were 17, Mum?” So I told him about 1989. There were no mobile phones or internet. You rang your friends on the house phone and hoped they were home. People turned up when they said they would and most of the time you waited. We used to spend a lot of time waiting around for each other. Shops were closed on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. Nights were quieter. Life moved more slowly. As I spoke, I could feel something in my body soften. What was strengthened in our nervous system when we waited around was a greater capacity for uncertainty and a quiet trust that connection would come.

Digital image, Kellie Stirling. Waiting for our friends by the clocks.

Not because everything was better, it wasn’t. But because something about the pace of life was different. It was a little more contained, less exposed and relentless. I think that’s part of what we’re feeling when we experience nostalgia at the moment.

It’s often described as longing for the past but I don’t think we’re really longing for a decade. I think we’re longing for that felt sense. A way of being in ourselves when the world moved differently.

Later that day, I was in the car with my sons. My eldest, who’s nearly 20 and an engineering student at University, was driving. We were talking about fuel shortages and what might change in the future, electric cars, shifting systems, renewable energy options, the way the world is having to adapt.

I found myself asking: “What do you think we’ll learn from this?” He said, quite simply: “I think people have to realise that the only way we’re going to get through this is together. We have to collaborate. We have to support each other. We’ve got to change.”

I felt it land in my body as he spoke because in that moment, something shifted. Nostalgia looks back. But what he named looks forward. We can’t recreate the conditions of the 90s. The world is more interconnected now. It is more complex and demanding on our attention, our nervous systems, our capacity to process.

The slower pace we remember wasn’t just a lifestyle it was an environment that offered a kind of built-in regulation. There was less information, stimulation. and there were more natural boundaries between “on” and “off.”

That world doesn’t exist in the same way anymore. So the question isn’t, how do we go back? It’s: ‘How do we live well here? Perhaps this is where nostalgia becomes something more than wistfulness. Maybe it becomes a kind of remembering. Remembering not of a time but of what mattered and what was valued.

There was connection, presence and rhythm. It felt a little more spacious for our nervous systems and there was more connection and time spent in different types of community.

We are being asked to express those things differently now, not through simplicity, fewer inputs or retreating from the world, but through conscious collaboration with greater discernment. By learning how to stay connected within it.

What my son named, in that simple sentence, is something I see in my work every day. Whether I’m working with leaders, couples, or individuals navigating change the same truth emerges: we regulate in relationship and we find our way through complexity together.

So maybe the nostalgia many of us experiencing at the moment isn’t asking us to return to the past.

Maybe it’s helping us feel what we’re missing, so we can choose how to bring it forward. We may not get the slower world back, but we can create moments of slowness. We may not escape the complexity but we can learn to meet it with others, rather than alone.

I think perhaps that is the quiet invitation underneath all of this; not to go back but to become more intentional about how we live now.

Together.